


Spare Me Your Glass, Give Me Your Anchor

by Shadowstar



Series: The Other Side of the Rainbow [3]
Category: Supergirl (TV 2015), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Derek Hale is Stiles Stilinski's Anchor, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-28
Updated: 2016-10-28
Packaged: 2018-08-27 12:03:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8400991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowstar/pseuds/Shadowstar
Summary: Stiles is working with Zatanna on breaking a glass jar, but ends up making something else instead.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Third part! They’re seeming to write themselves; it helps that I have a very clear goal in mind for this series. This one is set three days after part 2. Once again starts out with Zatanna POV, then moves to Stiles. And, yes, I will probably at some point do either Clark or Kara, but I’m wary of doing Clark because I don’t want him to end up sounding like Welling!Clark. But we’ll get there.  
>  **Unbeta’d** ; please send any concrit or noticed mistakes to my inbox. Plz and thx.

For what feels like—and probably is—the thousandth time that day, the sound of shattering glass bounces off the gray-painted walls of the workspace the two of them had turned one of the conference rooms into.

“Damn it!” Stiles bursts out, angry and frustrated, face lined with exhaustion with the lines at the corner of his eyes telling the story of desperately wanting to _quit_. But there is a stubborn set to his rounded jaw that tells the opposite story; that while he’s tired, he’s not giving in, not giving up. That he will continue to beat his head against the _goddamn wall_ , if he has to.

She really, really wishes that he wouldn’t. Because he’s not the only one getting frustrated by the lack of progress. In terms of raw power, it’s definitely there. All there, bubbling under the surface and waiting to ease out through cracks she can sometimes see when he’s tired and vulnerable and about to break.

And he’s been close to breaking more than once in the course of the past three days they’ve been working on this. Now is just another instance where he’s starting to crumble, and it leaves her frustrated and grasping at straws. Wondering, too, if she’d been this hard to teach. But she had started when she was younger, far younger, and there is a sneaking suspicion that might be part of the problem.

With a sigh, she holds her palm over the shards of glass on the table between them.

“Eb elohw,” she commands the glass pieces, watching in satisfaction as the jar—something cheap from Michaels that Alex had given them to use for this practice—reassembles. “Stiles, it’s okay. You’re getting there.”

It’s meant to be reassuring, and she wants to reach out and touch his arm to add to it. But she’s learned that when he is in this state of being, he is anything but touchy-feely. In fact, he tends to be about as far from it as someone can get without suddenly growing spikes to ward people off entirely.

The only person he typically lets anywhere near him is Kara. Well, and Clark. But it’s hit or miss, most of the time. And it’s been three days since she was brought in to teach him, and every time she finds herself wanting to at least pat his arm, she has to stop herself.

The reassurance falls flat, if the look on his face is anything to go by. It’s sad and it tugs at things in her chest, her heart, in her _soul_. Because that is the look of someone who is used to being disappointed in the worst ways possible; it’s a look she’s seen several times. It never gets easier to see, either.

Just like it never gets easier to see his memories in her nightmares, disjointed images with no context, no sound, no _emotion_. But it still guts her, tears her up, leaves her feeling raw and bare and waiting for the monster under her bed to emerge to eat her.

“But it’s _not_!” he suddenly bursts out, shoving away from the table, leaving her to fold her hands in front of her while she waits.

This is new. And it leaves her hopeful.

“It’s not fucking _okay_! None of this is okay, in _any_ way, shape, or form! I can’t even do something simple, like fill the damn jar with _air_!” His voice rises until he is yelling, voice bouncing around the room, frustration at its peak.

“You can, you just refuse,” she informs him, voice calm and slow. Simple, as though speaking to a child. She doesn’t entirely know where she’s coming from with this, but she feels settled for the first time in _days_ , knows that they’re making a breakthrough, here.

“ _Refuse_?!” he chokes out the word, strangled, high-pitched and pained. Like the word was scraped from his chest, hollowing him out. Disbelief shows plainly on his face as he turns on her, taking two steps forward to slam his hands against the tabletop.

She’s proud she can say she doesn’t even blink, just continues to stare at him with dark eyes that are testing, hoping, _encouraging_ , even if he can’t see it.

“I—you—“ he can’t seem to form any other words, hands shaking as he folds them into fists on the table top. Her eyes flicker from his twisted face to the jar on the table.

The jar that is vibrating, almost _rocking_ with the power that is pouring off the young man in front of her. Reacting to it.

“I did. I said you _refuse_ ,” she pushes that much harder, eyes narrowing. Her arms cross over her chest, keeping her stance open and easy, relaxed. Non-threatening. “You _refuse_ to do this because you _clearly_ don’t actually want to go home.”

All of the color drains from his face and for a moment she thinks she might have gone too far, pushed him in the wrong direction. But then she sees the _Spark_ in his eyes, the one that makes his eyes _glow_ for a moment, making his amber eyes seem almost like liquid fire for a moment.

Just a moment, a breath, and the jar is shattering.

In a split-second reaction, Stiles’s hand shoots out, palm forward towards the jar, and she can see his magick work, see his will bend the air to keep the jar from _exploding_. Making sure, in the process, that the two of them don’t end up full of thick glass shards.

She grins, bright and excited, her heart _soaring_ with elation as she watches, feels the magick touch her own skin in a familiar caress, even if the ‘flavor’ isn’t her own, or one she is yet familiar with. But Stiles is strong, powerful, and _fuck_ if this wasn’t a major breakthrough.

“Now put it back together,” she urges, breathless and vibrating visibly. Wanting to clap and cheer, wanting to rush around the table to hug him, to touch him, but knowing that now, _now_ is crucial in making sure he’s getting this done correctly.

His brow furrows in concentration, silent save for the whistling breath coming from between clenched teeth, sweat beading on his brow and rolling down between his eyes, along his temple. Slowly, slowly, his fingers flex and the glass vibrates in the air for a moment before moving, twisting and turning, catching the light and dancing in the air like snowflakes on a bright winter morning. It takes a moment, but even the smallest speck of dust from the jar slowly converges inwards, back into its original shape, the pieces fitting back together again. Merging, smooth and not a little different, but whole all the same.

The glass cylinder, not quite a jar any longer, wobbles as it is gently lowered to the tabletop before it settles on the flat bottom.

There is a moment of silence before she finally gives into her urge, laughing bright and happy as she rushes around the table. He grunts softly when she finally impacts into his side, wrapping a shaking arm around her as he stares, long and hard, at the glass he’d just reshaped after breaking it.

It’s horribly symbolic, and it’s so damn _perfect_.

“You _did_ it!” she cheers, exuberant and genuinely happy for him. Happy to see proper progress. But her happiness is dampened by his trepidation, by his sadness, and her broad grin slowly fades.

“What’s wrong, Stiles?” She steps gently away from him after she’s asked, pressing her hand to his arm once it slides off her shoulders.

His eyes are bright, too bright, and his expression is distant. He doesn’t meet her eyes, continuing to stare at the jar he’d remade.

“So, werewolves have this… thing. When they’re learning control, they. They have to find an anchor, right? And it makes sense; in a storm, you use an anchor on a boat so you don’t get your shit tossed around, so you _stay put_. And for a werewolf, all those enhanced senses—they’re the _storm_ ; all kinds of new sensory input that overloads the brain and makes them fall back onto baser instincts.” He swallows, and she doesn’t say anything, doesn’t let herself react fully quite yet. Lets him have this moment to gather himself, to finish the thought; clearly, this was important to him, to what just happened.

When he continues, his voice has dropped to a hoarse whisper, ragged and sounding like sandpaper had been taken to his vocal cords.

“All this time… All this time, I’ve been just trying to be something other than myself. To be _more_. To be more than the sidekick, more than the token human, to be more than the researcher. But I’m _comfortable_ in those roles, because they mean I’m still _human_. But. But I need to go home, I need to go back to my friends and stop whatever latest bad thing that’s happened, and I _need_ this power to work. But I wasn’t… All this time, I kept thinking about the general ‘everyone’. I kept thinking of my Earth as a whole, of my town, when I just…” He trails off, words finally running out on him, leaving a ringing silence in their absence.

One that she is happy to fill, understanding settling in her chest with a by-now familiar ache.

“You just needed to concentrate on _one_ thing, one person; let it center you like I’ve been telling you for the past few days you needed,” she sighs, voice soft and gentle. Wanting, more than anything, to once again reach out further, to wrap him up in a hug. And right now, as distracted as he is, she could do it. She could hold him tightly, rub his back, and he would _let her_.

But it isn’t right. Her comfort isn’t what he wants, what he needs. He has no want for her, for here, for this _place_. And she understands that on a fundamental level, probably almost better than anyone else.

After all, one of her best friends is Clark Kent. And the man’s planet was gone, had blown up before he could even have any real memories form about the place. Was adrift, alone in so many ways, yearning for understanding and, as Stiles had put it, an _anchor_. Part of her thinks he’d found that in his work at the Daily Planet, in Lois, in being Superman. But there are times when she catches that look, _this_ look—the one in Stiles’s eyes right now, the feeling of which had been reflected in his words—saying that he wishes he could go back.

It’s _homesickness_. And the strength of it leaves her aching and breathless and all the more resolved to _help_.

“I think… I think this is a good place to leave this lesson for the night,” she tells him, squeezing the gentle round shape of his shoulder beneath her pressing hand, encouraging and praising.

His adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, the sound of it a dry click that echoes in the silent room. His nod is jerky as he steps away from her, out from under her hand, heading towards the door.

Before he can leave, she stops him, calling his name softly.

“Stiles,” she sighs once he’s stopped, stuffing her hands into the pockets of the dark pants she’s wearing. “You should…” She doesn’t know what she means to say, what he should do, but is inspired when she thinks of the whispered memory of conversation she’d had with Clark when she’d told him that she was going to be helping Stiles, even after she’d been laid out on her ass after her initial spell. “Clark is usually on the roof this time of night.”

He blinks at her, slow and languid, his thoughts shuttered behind tired walls, but eventually gives a nod to let her know he’d heard and understood. Then he turns, and then he’s gone, and it leaves her breathless and feeling the heavy weight of everything that had been achieved in the past twenty minutes.

There’s still a lot of work left before she can teach Stiles how to open the portal to his home, but they’re most definitely on the right track now.

*=*-*=*

He’d done it. He’d actually somehow managed to do it. He’d successfully shattered that damn jar, and had put it back together again. It’s only taken him a whole three days to do it, and he knows it’s just the beginning of what he needs to learn, but it feels so damn _good_ to have a victory under his borrowed belt, just for _once_.

Now, if only it actually _felt_ like a victory. If only it felt like he was making a step in the right direction, and not veering off a path he’d thought was set and laid out for him before he’d even had a really chance to decide.

Well, no. He’d decided. He’d decided when he’d asked Scott to go into those woods to look for a dead body. He’d decided when he chose to help Derek. He’d decided when he threw a Molotov in Peter’s face and watched Derek tear out the man’s throat. He’d decided in that pool after two and a half hours of believing he could keep them alive. He’d decided when he’d been beaten and bruised and watched two kids he knew get tortured. He’d decided when he’d driven his jeep into the side of a building, when he’d lied to his dad, when he’d told his dad the truth, and just…

He’d decided. So many times. He’d made the choice, and now he was living with what it meant, even if it was after the fact. Even if it felt like a heavier weight than before, like this extra bit of weirdness was nearly the pressing weight to bend the board in half and snap it in a splintered mess that leaves nothing behind. And, yeah, maybe his thoughts are darker, sadder, more _maudlin_ than they should be. But all he can think is that he is so, _so_ fucking glad that he hadn’t had this ability, hadn’t had it _trained_ , when the Nogitsune had been in residence.

He can only imagine the chaos, the destruction, the _pain_ , the fox would have been able to cause with it.

The air up this high over the city is cold, and there is a wind that never seems to get mentioned on television shows that show rooftop conversations. But otherwise, it’s quiet; _peaceful_ , really, being up this high, not really being anywhere near the other inhabitants of this city he has found himself in that shouldn’t exist. But does, it does, and it fucking _sucks_ because he wants to share this, but he _can’t_.

He _can’t_.

“You look awfully pensive for someone who managed to successfully achieve their goals for the day,” comes a voice from just above him, followed by a soft rush of wind and the sound of boots crunching on the gravel-tar-whatever covers the rooftop.

He blinks over at Superman, whose arms are crossed over his chest, his jaw soft and his eyes concerned and that.

_That_. That is a look he wishes he had seen on a similar face, on Derek’s face, before. Actually, no, he has seen it. It’s just never been quite _that_ soft because nothing about Derek, about Derek’s _life_ , is soft.

“How much of the conversation did you hear?” He’s always wondered about the superhearing; can’t really remember it being discussed in the comics as anything other than a way to hear cries for help around the world. Wonders how it compares to werewolf superhearing, then finds himself really kind of not wanting to know the answer.

“None. I just heard the glass break that last time,” Superman shrugs, his stance relaxed, comfortable. Like this is _normal_ , a normal conversation between two friends, and not a conversation between a comic book character and the boy who runs with wolves.

Though, he hasn’t been a _boy_ in a really, really long time.

“Yeah, well.” He doesn’t know what to say to that, how to get it out. To say what he hadn’t been able to admit to Zatanna downstairs. And he needs to say it, to tell _someone_ , and Kara—she’d _insisted_ he call her Kara, had gotten kind of fanatical about it, in fact—isn’t around and he honestly isn’t sure he would be able to tell her.

Not after their numerous, unending arguments about him and Derek and himandDerek and the decided _lack_ of himandDerek and how it wasn’t going to _happen_ , it didn’t work that way, and Derek was gone and—

“I used Derek as my anchor.” The words are out, formed and processed and expelled roughly before he can even really stop them. Not that he would. He’d _just_ been thinking that he’d wanted someone to talk to, to tell, about what he’d _done_. So there he was, telling.

“Anchor?” Superman asks, confused and curious, thoughtful. Before Stiles can even really answer, he sees it click in the Kryptonian’s mind with blinked eyes and surprise. “So. Someone who acts as your… tether, as it were. Someone to encourage you.”

“Someone who means the world and has _no_ idea,” he agrees before he can stop himself, only to flinch at the knowing, pitying look he gets from Superman in return.

“Who you would protect without a second thought. Someone you would give your life for. Someone… someone who is essentially a fire that burns at the center of your being, and guides you to it.” The man’s voice is softer, now. His face is sad, and _that_ is a familiar expression he’s seen on Derek’s face: like he’s lost _everything_ , and he knows it, but he keeps _going_ because he has to.

Superman and Derek are shockingly, scarily similar in that way: they have both lost their families, their _world_ , and they’ve still somehow built something else for themselves.

The reminder makes his chest ache, tighten, and he hates it.

“Derek… I’ve saved his life a lot. And he’s saved mine, too. He looked for me when no one else was, put the pieces together when it seemed like no one else could comprehend it. He is one of the few people I trust, would trust, with _everything_.” It’s so simple to say it out loud; to admit to what he’s always thought.

“You’ll figure it out, Stiles. You’ll get home and see him again.” And Superman, he sounds so _sure_ of it. Like if he says it, then it has to happen. It’s one of the more frustrating things that he’s always disliked about Superman, as a character, but it’s hard to dislike the thought when the man is literally _right there_.

“Yeah. Maybe.” Not that he won’t get home; he knows he’ll get home, _knows_ it. Can feel it in the very core of him, in the way that his skin now tingles almost constantly with the thrum of his power, just beneath the surface.

But seeing Derek again? He doesn’t know about _that_. Doesn’t know if that’s even possible, isn’t even sure he’ll have the guts to make that phone call. The one he _needs_ to make, has to, when he gets home because it’s gone on too long. Two years is too long to leave a conversation, even with all the extenuating circumstances that he knows he can cite.

“You will. To _both_ ,” Superman tells him, breaking through his thoughts, as though he’s read his mind. And then there is a warm hand on his shoulder, pressing a warm thumb into the crevice of his clavicle, and then Superman is gone. Stepping away, lifting off, probably heading home because he _has_ a home that he can go to.

“Maybe.” Because he’s petulant, and he knows that—if the superhero is listening for it—it can be heard, and he needs to not give himself false hope for something he’s never really believed in.

Even if the warmth in his chest says otherwise.

Shaking his head and leaving the thoughts on the roof for another night, he turns and heads back inside, heads down to his guest quarters in the building that never sleeps, and plans on doing the meditation exercises. And if he thinks of Derek, pressed against his shoulder in the back of a transport van, speaking in a low voice about control, that is _his_ secret and no one else needs to know.

**Author's Note:**

> Translation of Zatanna's spell:
> 
> Eb elohw = Be whole
> 
> You can also find me on [tumblr](http://pinkybitesu.tumblr.com).


End file.
